


Quiet Winter

by Keatulie



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: (they're in their late 20s anyway), Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Parents, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, and a fluffy nose bc headcanon that he starts to look like The Joxter as he ages haha.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-29 15:11:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19832812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keatulie/pseuds/Keatulie
Summary: In which Snufkin encounters a lost child in the woods and damns his Mymble genes.





	1. The Child in the Woods

Snufkin was being watched. Any seasoned vagabond knows the sensation of a pair of eyes piercing into one’s back, especially those who like to wander where they don’t belong. He lowered the brim of his hat over his face and groaned. Of course some fastidious landowner had found him. He’d been warned on the way in, he supposed, but to have all this beauty locked away from visitors? Nonsense to him. He was about to prepare an argument for the inevitable telling-off, when there was a sudden _snap_ of a twig from the edge of the woods.

And then it was quiet.

Something in the hesitation made his blood run cold. Usually guards would seize their opportunity to charge at him, yelping and hollering for all they were worth, and for a terrible moment, Snufkin wondered if the signs forbidding entry to the forest had been hiding something more sinister than he’d realised. The movement resumed; perhaps if he stayed still enough, they might mistake him for an oddly-shaped bush and leave.

Footsteps came clacking down the stone path he’d taken to the riverbank - hooves, by the sound of it. There was a sense of urgency in them, far too clumsy to be of any danger, and small enough that they wouldn’t be able to do much harm, anyway. The trotting changed to crunching snow as whoever it was fast approached his hiding spot.

Snufkin didn’t bother to turn his head. Feeling his apprehension replaced with annoyance, he called out, "Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?"  
(Not that Snufkin had ever been a stickler for formalities, but any that encouraged his solitude were fine by him.)

The crunching got louder. Snufkin eventually glanced around. From between the trees there was scuffling, scratching, few more cracks, and then - a tangled ball of salt and peppered fur, toddling out on two stout legs. Not a haughty hemulen as he’d expected, but a lost baby, one so small that he could probably scoop it up in his old hat like Little My. Their coat was so matted that it was difficult to tell where their hair ended and their body began; he could just about see two bright green eyes, staring out from under the mass of fluff. Almost every inch was caked in mud and detritus. This was a beast that looked as if it had never stepped into civilisation, but the scrap of ribbon around their neck suggested otherwise.

Snufkin could never understand why it was always him. It was if someone had tacked a sign to his back reading ‘caretaker here’ each time he set out (one that most certainly would have been removed in an instant). He only hoped that they weren’t in search of a name; after christening twenty-four woodies and a persistent forest creep, he wasn’t sure that there were enough vowels left in the world.

Still, he greeted them politely enough. "Hullo there," he’d said, flicking up his hat. The child said nothing, so he gave them a reassuring smile. "I’m not angry with you."

Their expression softened, but they kept silent. The creature scratched at a particularly tousled bit of fur.

Snufkin considered them for a moment, then he stood and crossed to the edge of the woods, keeping his distance when he noticed them backing away slightly. He set about gathering an armful of sticks and dry leaves from the forest floor, and threw them down a few feet from his tent.

Snufkin ducked inside and re-appeared holding a deep bowl, one about big enough for the job. There were chips along the rim, and the paint had long since faded. He didn’t really eat from it nowadays. It might as well see some use before he tossed it, he thought, running it through the river and wedging it to the top of the campfire.

The child looked on with curiosity.

He struck a match from his pocket and touched it to the pile. "I haven’t anything to dry you afterwards. We’ll have to make do with the fire."

If the creature understood what he was saying, they made no indication.

Snufkin took the heated bowl from its spot and placed it aside. After untying the ribbon from around their neck, he hoisted the child in one arm, who hung from his grip like a sack of potatoes, and gently lowered them into them into it. He began loosening the dried dirt from the poor beast’s hair, taking care to look for any nicks or scratches they might’ve gotten out in the woods. They were clearly feeling better for it. Snufkin had had to jostle them a few times to stop them from falling asleep in the water.

Once he was satisfied that they were bright and shiny again, Snufkin lifted the now sopping-wet and grumpy creature out of their bath. He tutted at the commotion, "You can’t stay in there; you’ll boil like a cabbage!"

Having thought of a good solution to the fuss, Snufkin left the angry mop by the fireside and retrieved a second bowl, along with some leftover vegetables, from his backpack. He presented them with a flourish and asked, genially, "Now, how about some supper?"

The sudden silence confirmed that the answer was ‘yes’.

They were much too little to feed themselves, it turned out, or maybe no one had ever shown them how. Snufkin bundled them into his lap and offered the spoon, absently wondering how they’d been faring alone all this time. Judging by how eagerly they lapped up every spoonful, apparently not too well. Soup trickled down the side of their muzzle, which Snufkin wiped up with the corner of his tunic.

"You know," he began lightly. "I would have liked some, too."

He made to raise the spoon to his own lips, dropping his arm again and snorting when the child gaped after it like a baby bird. "It’s yours, little one."

-

By now, it was early evening. Supper had been cleared away and the fire doused. Snufkin was settled under a pine tree, watching the sun disappear over the horizon, the little one still wrapped up in his arms. Normally, he wouldn’t be so keen to spend his time alone this close to someone – especially a stranger - but they’d been so quiet that it was easy to forget they were there at all.

In fact, Snufkin had become so absorbed in the view, that it had taken him a while to notice the growing dead weight on his chest, and he had a slightly uncomfortable feeling he knew where it came from. His suspicions were confirmed when he glanced down and found that the child had fallen asleep.

He wanted to protest and send them back off to the woods and their own bed, surely someone was missing them by now? But a biting wind was starting to blow, bringing with it a few flakes in the air. Spring hadn’t quite arrived just yet and the weather could still be treacherous. They might’ve survived so far, but he could hardly leave something so small alone in a cold snap.

He twirled a lock of their fur between his fingers. "What am I supposed to do with you, then?"

The little one hummed sleepily into his chest. They probably wouldn't even stir at all, he thought. One night isn't so bad.

It was slightly warmer inside the tent, but not by much, so Snufkin unfurled his scarf and draped it over the guest, who was lying curled up in the centre. A voice in the back of his head fretted over the idea of them being caught up in it during the night, a voice that sounded unmistakably like The Joxter's. He sighed in disbelief at how easily he could turn into his father.

-

When Snufkin woke up the next morning, he found the scarf abandoned in a heap by the foot of his bed, and a crease in the tarp where it had been lifted - the child was gone, along with their ribbon.

It was to be expected. All little creatures had their places to be, after all. He himself had already settled on the life of a traveller at their age.

Still, Snufkin hoped they would be alright, wherever they’d gone.


	2. All Small Beasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops this second chunk hit 3k, so I'm splitting it into a whole new extra chapter.  
> the end is practically finished so expect that update a lot sooner than this one!!
> 
> enjoy all the Novel Lore I shoved in here hahaha

Snufkin had stayed a night longer than planned, just to make sure that the little one didn’t run afoul of the forest’s owners. He himself had taken to the apple trees with his tent rolled up in order to avoid the groundskeeper’s torchlight, who must have finally caught on that someone was skulking around their property.

In the rush, Snufkin realised he’d forgotten his rucksack back on the ground. It wasn’t worth heading down. He just prayed that they didn’t come across it and discover his whereabouts.

Once half the day passed with no sign of the child, Snufkin slipped away unnoticed (taking his share of the newly-grown fruit with him, as payment for an uncomfortable sleep), retrieved his bag, and continued on his journey.

-

It was a crisp late winter’s morning when Snufkin stepped out of his tent. Now several miles North, the air around him was starting to chill. The nearby stream was almost frozen solid, which was going to make washing uncomfortable. _Better to get it over with_ , he decided, and thrust his head into it all at once. The bracing cold shook the last of the drowsiness out of him as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Taking a shuddering breath, he resurfaced, rubbing the icy strands out of his eyes – and there, resting on the other side of the water, was the child from the other day.

They’d kept clean, Snufkin was pleased to see, and more importantly, they'd gotten themselves away unharmed. He dread to think what sort of dull life they would've been forced into, recalling the woodies in the sandbox, and stories of the orphanage that Moominpappa had been left in.

Snufkin dried his face along his sleeve, and said: "Good morning, little one!"

They looked around and smiled, wagging their tail ( _\-- had that been there before?--_ ) and lazily stretching out across the grass. They hopped over the narrow end of the stream to join him, and curled up a little distance away. It seemed they valued their space as much as he did - quite unlike other children, in his experience. Usually they were all about you like limpets on a rock.

Snufkin had felt so relieved to find them safe and well, that he almost hadn’t thought about how unusual it was to have run into them again. That forest was several miles behind them now, and even a taller beast like himself had taken some time to get here. The water ran in the opposite direction, so they couldn’t have drifted downstream, and the mountain he'd crossed would've been much too tough a walk for such a tiny thing.

It was only when Snufkin dipped into his backpack to fetch his fishing rod that he found the answer. Lifting it, he noticed how much lighter it felt in his hand. He was used to shedding a bit of weight by the end of his travels as his supplies depleted, but it seemed to have changed overnight.

He would’ve been concerned that something he actually needed was missing, if it weren’t for the fact that everything was accounted for: his matches in the right slip, his cards in the left, the section his fishing rod and tackle box had been in, the pocket that held loose rations and thread, the compartment where he kept the few bits of crockery he carried; two mugs, some bowls, a deeper dish and its spare --

\-- Except, he’d left that spare behind in the forest several days ago, which meant something else had to have been taking up the weight instead - and come to think of it, he was sure he hadn’t already eaten his way through most of the apples he’d packed before leaving.

Snufkin looked back at the child, now staring at him sheepishly as if knowing they’d been caught.

"Hungry, were you?" he scolded, but he couldn’t be mad, not truly. Perhaps if it had been earlier in his trip, and he hadn't already stolen the food himself.

Some part of him was impressed that they’d kept out of sight for so long. Truthfully, he hadn’t any reason to check that pouch since, as he’d had enough luck with the fish, and he never saw much need to close his bag unless he was walking with it. They must’ve crawled out in the early hours and reached the stream before him. Why they’d stowed away with him was another matter entirely, but he supposed that if they wanted to tag along so badly, then they had their reasons.

Setting up his gear, Snufkin rattled off some old story to them about the time _he’d_ made off with someone else’s fruit, but wasn’t fortunate enough to escape the consequences. He wasn’t really sure if he was telling this as a warning or bonding. He didn’t think they understood much, anyway, but they did find his impression of the guard quite funny (although Snufkin’s version had replaced most of his rant with ‘dash-dash-dash’), which made him laugh along with them. It was the first time he’d heard any real sound from them that wasn’t crying over a warm bath. He wondered if that meant that they were capable of speaking, but simply chose not to.

Snufkin cast his line out. "What’s your name?"

They didn’t say. He’d figured as much when he’d asked, but just because a person might not have much to say, it doesn’t mean one shouldn’t be polite.

"My name is Snufkin."

The little one chewed on their paw, thoughtfully, and then said in a quiet voice: "‘Nufkim."

He’d almost dropped the rod in shock. The child, on the other hand, was seemingly unfazed by their own words. Snufkin thought it wise to not make too much of a fuss, for fear of startling them. "That’s right," he said, gently.

He considered his follow-up question carefully. ‘Won’t your family be wondering where you are, little one?’

This time they didn’t answer; they just lowered their head, busying themselves with nibbling the end of their claws. It was clear they didn’t wish to talk any further, and Snufkin of all people knew better than to press them, so the subject ended there. But at least he had the reason.

After a moment, they removed their paw from their mouth and pointed to where Snufkin had set his line.

"This?" he gestured, having an idea what they were asking. They nodded. "I’m going to catch something for us to eat later—ah!" There was a pull on the line.

It didn’t feel strong, probably just a passing fry. Snufkin reached over and took the child’s paw, placing it on the handle. Together, and without much of a fight, they lifted a tiny, writhing fish from the water. He held it still and lowered it to their height.

"Well, well! Not bad at all, little one," he praised.

The look on their face made Snufkin’s chest flutter. Just a little. He wished he could feel so happy whenever he turned up guppies.

"Maybe not big enough to cook, though. Shall we let it go?"

He unhooked the fish and poured it into the child’s cupped paws, helping them swish it away into the river. Their excitement brought back a hazy memory of being taught by someone himself as a tiny mumrik, though he couldn’t for the life of him think of who it could have been.

-

Snufkin had just finished fishing up the morning’s breakfast (a dace and two grayling) when he felt something pulling at his back. He turned, and was greeted by the child, stickled with groundsel leaves from the overturned log they’d gone off to play in while he was occupied. Snufkin placed a hand on his hip disapprovingly.

They came and pressed their chin against his knee and held out one tiny fist, which was curled tightly around something.

Snufkin picked a few stray bits from their fur. "What have you got there?"

They opened their paw to reveal a familiar scrunched up ribbon, looking up at him expectantly. They must have stashed it there for safe-keeping.

"I see!"

Snufkin frowned as he brought it around their neck. He hadn’t noticed how tight it seemed before; whoever tied it last must have done so when they were much smaller, if that was even possible. He knelt and looped it around the middle of their tail instead.

"There. I think that’s just the right place for it."

 _And speaking of_ – he thought, feeling for the harmonica in his pocket. The fish would take some time to cook once he’d started the fire; he could pass the time with good old tune of his, one he often played for Moomintroll.

Oh – Moomintroll! How could he have forgotten his dear Moomintroll? He’d gotten so wrapped up in other matters that he’d managed not think of him for a whole morning. Now what would he have to say to Snufkin strolling up in the springtime with a child at his heels? A better question to ask himself might be why they were there at all. He’d certainly gotten ahead of himself there.

He’d planned to break camp the next day and continue his walk - tomorrow was the first day of spring, after all - and at his current pace, he’d be arriving at his destination by late afternoon. Only now, he found himself contemplating whether or not he should bring the little one along with him.

Ordinarily, this wasn’t something he would have ever dreamed of doing. But there they were: small, dependent, and totally alone. And covered in ragwort. They couldn’t be too much trouble on such a short journey, and surely there was someone back at Moominvalley who could take them in. His own mother, The Mymble, for one, who didn’t have the best track record of keeping her many children in place. He could probably slip another in there without anybody noticing. But then, that wouldn’t be fair on his poor eldest sister, who was often stuck with the brunt of the babysitting work. Plus, there was always the worry that she might lose them in a basket again. He wouldn't want that to happen.

Perhaps Too-Ticky had a place for them. He hadn’t wanted to consider it, but Snufkin had an uneasy feeling that he couldn’t have simply missed something as conspicuous as a tail the first time they’d met, and Too-Ticky was the best person to handle such cases. She usually squatted in the Moomin's bathhouse during wintertime, and if he was lucky, he might just catch her before she left.

There was no sense dwelling on it now, anyway. He wouldn’t even reach the valley for a while yet. He could think about that when they got there. Instead, he finished building up the fire and staked his catch beside it.

Snufkin took out the mouth organ and played his jaunty little song, and his mind filled with thoughts of Moomintroll.

-

The child shared his tent again that night, and fell asleep as easily as last time. Only once did they awake and whine. For what, Snufkin didn’t know, but they’d settled down just as quickly when he came to tuck his tunic around them, and lightly brushed their head. That was when he noticed the velvety set of antlers in their hair.

He kept an eye on them a little longer than needed before returning to bed.


	3. Finding a Home

They left early the next morning. A few night-birds were still calling. Snufkin never could sleep well on the eve of spring, there was too much to think about. The little one was in no mood to rush off, and refused to leave the cocoon of his warm tunic. Snufkin gave it a tug, causing it to unravel and send them rolling across the floor. They squealed excitedly and scampered away, with Snufkin following after.

A short time later, Snufkin was already packing away his tent, explaining the process of dismantling camp as he went along, just in case they ever needed it themselves. The child seemed more invested in munching through the remaining apples that he’d sliced for them.

He held the backpack out to them; they shook their head.

“Do you want to walk?”

They nodded.

“You aren’t tired?”

They shook their head again, a little less believably, but Snufkin slipped his bag around his shoulders anyway. He took their paw in his as they started ambling off ahead of him. He couldn’t have them going off exploring, not today. There would be plenty of space to run around once they got to Moominvalley.

-

The sky was clear and Snufkin could smell the stirrings of spring in the air. The breath caught in his chest when he spotted a familiar bend in the stream, skipping over its stones and helping the little one along with him.

It had been years since the first visit, five since the confession, and the first sign of the trail would still turn him giddy all over. He was sure he caught a glimpse of the welcoming cherry-red of Moominhouse just beyond the canopy as they turned.

Snufkin let go of the child’s paw to retrieve his harmonica.

“I’m going to play something now,” he announced. “You shouldn’t really be hearing it so soon, not before Moomintroll has, but I think I will make an exception – if you don’t go around telling anyone.”

They of course said nothing.

Snufkin tested a few notes as he walked. Some were shuffled here and there, and others were uneasy, but he felt sure it would all come together by the time it was needed. He twirled and bounded with his music, all while keeping watch on the child and making sure they didn’t stray too far from the path.

He sucked a shrill note through the mouth organ as they stepped dangerously close to a bed of nettles. To think The Mymble had ten or so at a time running every which way and yet always appeared so calm. Lucky for Snufkin that he’d encountered just the one, and one that wasn’t such a bother as he’d thought. They just strolled alongside him, stopping once or twice to admire a passing butterfly, and always coming along when told to.

“Hiljainen,” he said all of a sudden at the end of his tune. “Would that be a good name for you?”

It wasn’t his choice to make, he supposed, but if they were going to stay with someone then they deserved better than to be introduced as ‘little beast’, and didn’t that fit them well; a tiny, gentle thing, quiet as the winter night he’d met them.

They burbled something under their breath that might’ve been their name, it was hard to tell. Hiljainen – as they were for now – then stretched out their little body and yawned, suddenly struggling to match his wider strides.

They _had_ been walking since dawn, thought Snufkin. He would have stopped to let them rest, but the path to Moominvalley was just a half-mile from here. He wasn’t sure he could take the wait.

Hiljainen let Snufkin gather them up in his arms without complaint, wrapping theirs around his neck and nuzzling into him.

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’ll be there soon,” he said, bunching his scarf up underneath them comfortably.

The first thing Snufkin saw as they stepped out into the clearing was Moominhouse, its striking blue and red paint shining in the midday sun like a beacon. He must have seen it a dozen times, but the first glimpse of the New Year always sent a shiver through him. Icicles were trickling from its eaves and smoke was pouring from the chimney; Moominmamma must already be baking.

And if Moominmamma was awake, then that meant Moomintroll was, too.

Snufkin slowly approached their meeting spot, taking time to savour every final step of the journey before coming home. He swung his legs through the rails of the bridge, and waited. He couldn’t reach for his harmonica; Hiljainen had nodded off and Snufkin hadn’t the heart to set them down, but there was no need - a large, white shape was already scrambling down the rope ladder that hung from the top window.

Moomintroll was on his way.

It wasn’t too long before he came lumbering down the hillside, all limbs, looming over Snufkin as he came nearer (he’d grown over a head taller than him some winters ago) and breathlessly calling his name.

Snufkin stood and raised his hat to greet him.

He waved a large paw in return. Moomintroll stumbled to a stop and let his arms drop limply by his side, concerned and a little hurt when Snufkin then took a step back.

Snufkin raised a finger to his lips, and reassured him by craning up to push his snout against his.

Moomintroll let out a little noise of surprise as Snufkin readjusted his scarf to reveal the small child curled up inside it.

Hiljainen woke at once and wrinkled their nose in the sunlight. He thought the sight of a strange person might be too overwhelming, but they seemed taken with Moomintroll right away (he had that sort of a face, Snufkin supposed), who cooed at them, hovering awkwardly and not at all sure what to do with his paws.

“Hel-lo!” Moomintroll crouched and rested them on his knees. “Who’s this?”

“Hee-yen,” they mumbled, sleepily.

“Oh?”

“They’re saying ‘Hiljainen’,” corrected Snufkin. “It’s what I call them.”

He recounted their story to an eager Moomintroll, who always looked forward to hearing Snufkin’s tales of Overwintering out in the great, wide world, especially ones that brought surprises. He sat beside him with his chin in his paws, face furrowed in sympathy at how they’d been found lost and half-faded out in the wilderness.

“I was thinking of bringing them to Too-Ticky,” said Snufkin, trailing a finger down an antler has he remembered. “She’d know best. Is she around?”

Moomintroll shrugged. “Haven’t seen her all winter,” and then added, a little shyly, “I woke up early again this year.”

Snufkin clicked his tongue. “Really, Moomintroll, it’s a terrible habit you’ve gotten into. If you aren’t going to hibernate with the rest then you might as well run away with me.” But they both knew he didn’t mean it.

They stayed a while on the bridge, swapping stories of adventure, what the other did alone and how terribly they’d missed one another, until it felt like they’d never been apart at all - and finally, what they were to do with Hiljainen.

Moomintroll’s eyes lit up with an idea. ‘They could always stay here, with Mamma and Pappa! They’d love that, I know they would." He rubbed at his snout and said, distantly: “They’ve never said, but I think they miss having us all around.”

Snufkin never even gave a thought to Moomintroll’s own parents, but he could see what he meant. Their modest home had always been bustling with visitors of all kinds: extended family, passing tourists, stray creeps that needed a place to stay. The door was always open at Moominhouse. But over the last few years, things had been much quieter.

Moomintroll was still there, of course, and he and the Snork siblings always made sure to drop by, but now they’d all grown up. None of them tore around on magic clouds, or played hide n’ seek in and out of the rooms as much as they used to. Apart from Sniff, who had been all-but-adopted by the family, Moomintroll had no other siblings, and ever since their re-appearance, he’d started sharing his time between The Muddler and The Fuzzy more often than not.

Even Snufkin knew from experience how happy Moominmamma and Moominpappa always seemed to be to dote on others; a pair as loving as those two would no doubt be thrilled to welcome another family member.

Snufkin nodded. “Yes, I think you’d be right.”

“And of course, we could help them,” said Moomintroll, not quite meeting his eyes,

“We could,” he replied, just vague enough that it could’ve been heard as a question, which Moomintroll did.

“It’s just, well, someone--” he nodded to Hiljainen, “--seems to be a little attached. If they were abandoned, it wouldn’t be fair to move them around again. This way, they could still see you a lot.”

Snufkin felt his face prickling at the notion. He rocked back and forth a little on the bridge, the child he’d met just a few days ago peacefully settled against him, as if that’s where they’d always belonged. He hadn’t exactly planned for any of this, and yet, there was a part of him almost willing to admit it was nice to feel needed.

Perhaps that’s how the Moomins had felt about them.

“Could I – I mean, would it be alright?” he heard Moomintroll ask.

He snapped to attention. “What?” Snufkin looked up and saw Moomintroll was holding out his arms.

“To hold them.” he said, softly.

Snufkin passed Hiljainen over gently. Moomintroll took them – clumsy, but loving - whispering ‘oh, hi’ when they opened their eyes a little.

He smiled at his nervousness. Moomintroll was never any good at talking to babies, he just thought they were cute - and goodness, didn’t they look comfortable swaddled in his warm coat.

They heard a creak from somewhere up the hill. Mooominmamma was standing in the doorway of the house, waving and shouting something that Snufkin didn’t quite catch. He waved back anyway. Just before she closed the door, he noticed her peering at them oddly.

‘That’ll be dinner,” said Moomintroll. He slowly rose to his feet, cupping Hiljainen’s head tenderly and taking very deliberate steps. “Wait until they see you, won’t they be surprised?”

Snufkin had a feeling that they already knew.

He patted Moomintroll’s arm and let them go on ahead of him, watching as they approached the house and were greeted by his parents. He could see Moomintroll’s shoulders rise as he presented his child to Moominpappa, whose delighted expression seemed just a little rehearsed to him. Moominmamma was more convincing, but she glanced around them at Snufkin, with a sweet look that suggested otherwise.

Snufkin didn't go in right away. He picked at the patches on his elbows. He could sew. He could cook, bandage injuries. He was a deft storyteller. Moomintroll was wonderful, the grandest troll he knew, and no one in the many lands he'd visited would make a finer Father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thend. :)


End file.
